Open Fire
by Sienna Swan
Summary: Rated R for language and mature theme. What happens to Christan after Satine's death. Epilouge finally up. Please read and review, if cajoled into it, I may add a happier alternate ending. But I need to hear from you.
1. In The End

I ran my hands over the wood of the building I'd come to love, to hate, to loathe. I looked back down to my hands, which were chapped and raw from typing. I don't really know why they'd chapped from the typing, but that was my excuse. You don't question writers.  
  
My mind slid back, like it so often did, to the not-so-good day when Satine died. A thousand pins pricked the back of my eyes, and I gagged. I hate that feeling, like you're dying just holding back your tears. It partially ironic, really. I held our story in those hands, nails bitten to the bone with the anticipation of coming back. Anxiety. I cracked my knuckles, which were swollen from the amount of pounding I'd done. Toulouse no doubt though me mad by now, with my infernal yelling and pounding of the walls, at least back then. You don't cry when you know no one cares. I've noticed that, as I slipped into delusion. You cry for attention, to be comforted. When all your friends are pimps and streetwalkers, you know no one cares. They have their own problems, no doubt at least the size of yours. I kicked the caked mud from my shoes and walked forward, tentively paying the cover and sliding open the door. The night life at opened up to me again, the hounds of the underworld ready to stalk me down, and kill me. Zidler's Diamond Dogs, at least a hundred girls, tightened corsets small enough for my hands to wrap around their waists. I tried to wonder who liked that, a waist so skinny that their arms could wrap around it. I found guilty pleasure in that, for someone so little, so delicate. A toy, really. I was sick of being someone's toy, an anorexic lust that they'd hold for me. I closed my eyes, and wondered if Satine loved me. It's funny to think about love as an noun, not an verb. Verbs are so impersonal. But I'm starting to wonder if all words are impersonal. If writing is just a waste of my time. My father's voice still rings true, and if he dare knew me now... I wanted to slide down the side of the wall and break out in tears. Just scream and cry. Maybe someone would comfort me.  
  
Nini. My eyes briefly found my way to her, and she was twisting a black ringlet around me finger, sitting on the Argentinean's lap. Running her tongue over those cherry red lips. I hated her right then more then anything, how she was so nonchalant about Satine, how she just didn't care. This was all her fault. And what more, she was twirling her hair around her finger like a ditzy school girl, which was pissing me off right then. I suppose I would have walked over and gave her a square one in the jaw. But Satine. I was doing this for Satine.  
  
Harry Zidler. A man I'd come to love, a man I'd come to hate, just as the Moulin Rouge. His red swollen face looked briefly surprised to see me, but I doubt it was me as a person. It was most likely my appearance, eyes red rimmed like I'd so often seen Satines', my face unshaven, a haggard layer of stubble gathered over my chin. Hair hanging in lengthy locks curling past my ears.  
  
"Hello Zidler." My voice was deeper then I'd expected. I fumbled the paper in my hands, and each second was another beat of my heart, which was ringing through my ear drums.  
  
"Hello, Christian. How may I help you?" God, he was so nonchalant too. I was getting pissed off at the whole place, dammit. I wanted to grasp him in my arms and strangle him, and I would have, really. I clasped the story in my hands tighter, throttling it, before I stuck my grubby hands out like a small child. He took the sheets, and his eyes skimmed it  
  
"Tell our story, Goddammit Zidler." I hissed, eyes narrowing. He was slightly taken aback. I don't blame him. "Tell the story of your fucking pantomime. I can't live with your Goddamn lies anymore."  
  
I stormed out after that, the tears finally seeping over the red rims of my eyes, stinging, the salt so sweet in my mouth. It reminded me of her sweat, her sweat, and it was so bitter after I thought of that... I couldn't go on, I ran through the streets, tripping past prostitutes and winos, the only sound in my ears the slapping of my feet against the stones on the ground and the beating of my heart. I threw open the apartment door, breaking down in muffled sobs, thrusting myself onto the ground, having a tantrum. If I had been watching myself, I would have pissed myself off to no end. But I wasn't watching myself, and so I sat for hours, screaming and pounding, just like I did the first few days after her death. I poured myself a glass of Abstinence, the green liquid which had told me the truth, given me hell, lied to me, and left me lying in the dirt. Hands shaking, a picked it up to my mouth, pouring it into the caverns of my throat. I couldn't sip it, my chest and throat were tightened, like someone's wrapped my tubes in a knot. Shivering, I pulled her blue blanket into my arms, pressing it up to my nose... her scent, God knows I missed her scent. The blanket no longer smelt like perfume and sweat, but like me. Me,Goddammit, I'd lost another part of her, making it me. A solitaire tear fell down my hollowed cheeks, I wasn't eating enough, I knew that... I took another sip from the glass, starring at the Green Fairy before I slipped off to sleep. I swear for just that night, her face was Satine's.  
  
I don't know how long I slept. It could have been two hours, or two weeks. I held my head, the result of a ample hangover, squeezing my eyes shut to briefly shut it all out. Bohemian my ass, the truth was Satine was dead, leaving the beauty dead. I had no freedom. She once said the difference between me and her was that I could leave whenever I wanted. This was her home. Yeah, well then where the fuck am I? Why can't I go back? Thank you for curing me of my silly obsession with love. I looked out the smashed window, and knew what I had to do. I plastered a smile to my face, creasing the corners of my mouth, but I doubt anyone noticed. Wandering down the streets with a bored depression, knowing what I was about to do, was almost half fun. It was like I watching myself. The Green Fairy's a good girl. She really is.  
  
I walked to the pharmacy, putting on a husky cough. I grabbed some over-the- counter pills, coughed again, and staggered over to the counter. I placed the cough medicine on the counter, handing it to the man. Pulling faded bills from my pocket (I really hadn't spent much money, except on the Green Fairy), I thrust them to the man like I had the story to Zidler. This is how my story would end.  
  
Sitting back in my room, I coiled again into a corner, holding the cup of Absentince in one hand, the pills I'd bought in the other. I lined them up, one by one, until 50 of them had been stretched across my floor. I counted six times, just to make sure. Slowly, one by one, I took them, convulsing each time as the bitter taste hit my tongue, downing it with Abstentince. I went and sat on my balcony, rocking, rocking until the pills hit.  
  
She found me. Don't Goddamn ask me who she was, I'll tell you later. She found me, all alone, rocking, the empty bottle of pills in my hand. She kicked me in the stomach until I vomited, until I woke up, until I was screaming again, with pain and rage. I wanted to die, I didn't want her to make me spit it all up. If I had energy, I would have punched her out. I didn't care anymore. She slapped me a few times, trying to get me to stop crying, I suppose. What a dumb thing to do, slap someone so they stop crying. My tears stung enough, I didn't need the red blotch her hand had made stinging as well. It was a while before I'd stopped the staggering sobs, and found the strength to open my eyes. I think I half suspected to see Satine there, her cherry red pout so welcoming, lengthy eyebrows cocked, smirk lining her face. No such luck. If it wasn't Satine, my next guess would have been Nini. Looking for someone to spend the night with, I suppose. Really, right then, I wouldn't have minded. I didn't care anymore. No such luck, either. She was young, she couldn't have been any older then eighteen. Tall, long muscular limbs. Long lightly curly red hair pulled back into a bun. She had a fairly pretty face, small eyes almost oriental, tiny bird-like nose. She cocked her head with a childhood innocence I would have laughed at, if I was into those kind of things. Laughing, I mean. Not little girls.  
  
Her name was Simone. It was almost enchanting, but not because of herself. Not because she saved me. I don't even think I ever got the chance to say thank you to her. The only real reason I lusted for her was because she reminded me so much of Satine, the lengthy stride, the tinkling laugh... I wanted to kiss her, to pull her into my arms, and thrust her as far away from me, all at the same time. Corset pushing her small bust upwards, she leaned over as she talked to me, and I had to struggle to keep looking at her face. I think she was trying to make me look at the open cleavage though, due to the almost angry pout as she slid back to lean against the chair. Flicking her hair over her back, taken from the bun, she ran her tongue over her crimson lips, grinning like a cat. "Are you all right?" I leered at her from across the wooden table in my small room, leg hitting the typewriter I'd had to place on the floor.  
  
"I'm fine." You know, the funny thing is that I half expected an narcolepsy- ridden Argentinean to fall through my roof right then. And he didn't. 


	2. I Think I'm Parinoid

I think I slept with Simone that night. My mind is slightly foggy, be it I'd ridden myself of all knowledge, or be it that the pills had screwed me over. My guess is as good as yours.  
  
I thought I could escape her, picking up those slender arms which were draped over my body, sliding out of the cot to view myself in the mirror. Ragged, forlorn, I opened my eyes a little wider and shook my head. I always laugh when other people do that, like they're coming from a dream. I'm very cliché sometimes. The pitter patter of tiny dancer's feet, bound into shoes like her waist to the corset, echoed through the room. I cringed slightly and looked back to the mirror, where her reflection was creeping up towards mine. She purred slightly, and wrapped her arms around me again. If I didn't feel so guilty for using her like I was, I would have pried her arms off and ran away.  
  
You might notice I'm not giving you much information about Simone. I'm not talking about her as a person. She's just another character in my pantomime. I can't talk about her. I didn't think I was ever going to have to. I'll come around, don't worry. But for now, she is the young red head who was infatuated with me. There was conversations I haven't mentioned. She knew me enough to like me. She has a personality. She wasn't just a kitten. But for the sake of not becoming more attached then I am, or was, she is a kitten to you.  
  
Simone walked in front of me with that stride I'd seen so often in Satine. The conventional stride of a cortisan, one that shows everyone loves them, and they know it. I slunk behind, watching her as she grinned at men, cracking her hanky in the air. She wasn't even a Moulin Rouge dancer. She was just a spunky little bitch I'd come to know. Compared to her self-confident capering, my walk was staggered and self-conscious. I skulked through the shadows of the streets, grown too used to the underworld. I was ignored, and I liked it like that. Occasionally I'd see someone I knew before, be it a drunken Boho, or a can can dancer. I'd give a curt nod, shiver running up my spine. Simone dragged me into a bristro. Fuck, Satine never would have taken me into a bristro. I clinched that though, the memory of me throwing money at her feet for the play. I paid my whore, and my whore paid me with her fucking life. That's not funny, that's not even dark humor. Ironic doesn't cut it.  
  
I sat across the table from her. I've heard many a poet write about sitting across a table from someone, wishing you could run. I think this was the first time I truly understood. I didn't want to grow close, I didn't want to feel, the only reason I was doing this is because she was so much like Satine... it wasn't fair, Goddammit, like some cruel trick. They were so much the same, I just couldn't stand it. It was truly driving me mad. The Green Fairy I relied on, Satine I held so dear, and this young Simone with her infatuation of me... I drove them into a blender, and had created this magical being, this, this entity... Unluckily, Simone was the only one living, and so I placed this entity inside her. I could hear her shoe tapping on the ground, and I guessed she asked me something. "Oh, yes, I'm sure you did the right thing." I replied nonchalantly, another thing I got pissed off with other people for doing. She returned a small smile and continued with her story, something about work and apartments and paying rent. I'd had enough of that.  
  
Toulouse later told me he thought he'd gone mad when he looked into the window of the bristro. He thought I was sitting across from Satine. I laughed it off then, telling him I saw no such resemblance. He didn't believe me. He knew I was fishing for a replacement Satine. I remember Toulouse's small nod, wary glance in my direction. He looked down from his hole in the ceiling, and his face looked so sad. He was the only one who wasn't mocking Satine. The rest of them, every time they laughed, every time they smiled... God, they were making her life equal shit. She didn't deserve being associated with them. She deserved to rest, just her and me and Toulouse. The only ones who bothered to remember her.  
  
I rocked again that night. I don't know why I rock, it's just something I do to help me think. I trip and stagger if I pace, and so I sit in a corner, and rock. It reminds me of hide-and-go-seek, with my heart beating like a jack rabbits' feet, rocking back and forth, just waiting to be found. I twisted an empty bottle in my hand, and looked towards the hole which seemed to grow considerably larger at night, just waiting to swallow me up. I wanted it to, just an excuse to go away. A thousand whispers were heard on the wind, and I started sobbing for Satine, for myself, for Toulouse, even for the Green Fairy. But most for Simone, because she loved me. And to me, she was but Satine.   
  
My neck hurt when I woke up in the morning, bathed in sunlight. I blinked like a bat, briefly wondering where I was, my body numb from the cold. Rain poured down around my apartment, thudding, giving my pounding headache a rhythm, a beat. It was more then I could bear. I stood on a chair, raising myself into Toulouse's room. The contents of the room were asleep, so I went and sat on a make-shift swing, kicking back and forth, swinging with a drunken happiness. I sway around the room, my head spinning, the swing twisting. I hummed a silly drinking tune to myself before I stopped, looking into the eyes of the drunken Argentinean, thick eyebrow raised. Some primal instinct took over, and I pulled my lips back in a silent hiss, before escaping to the streets once again. I had no idea why I was so petrified.  
  
Like a wave of warm water, I realized I'd gone crazy. It was almost odd I hadn't thought of it before, but I don't often look to the most obvious answers. I had an alibi to go with my crime, and with a newfound happiness, I strut down the street like a rooster. Finding the apartment I'd labeled Simone's, I gave a slight knock, grinning like a fool. Her sleepy face met mine as she stuck it through the crack in the door, sliding back the lock and rubbing her eyes. "Fuck, Christian, it's five AM..." I just kept grinning like I was the cock-of-the-walk.  
"I know, and I'm sorry. I just had to see you." A lie, really, but I wanted to be with someone. I was miserably crazy, and misery loves company. Simone shook her head and opened the door, yawning, stepping aside so I could walk in. I walked inside, looking around the apartment. Furnished sparingly, much like mine, I felt almost at home. I sunk into a faded armchair, drumming my chapped fingers against the arm rest. Looking beside me to a end table, I almost screamed, grasping a picture in my trembling hands. Oh God, no, God... I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. Scantily clad in her pajama's, Simone walked back out, looking at me. She yawned again, either not noticing or ignoring my shook.  
"She's pretty, ain't she? It's my sister, Satine. Unfortunate, really, she died of consumption not two years ago. I moved here after her death." 


	3. Choking on the Truth

Satine dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead  
  
Thousands and thousands of lines ran down at least 20 pages, both sides, until the word lost all meaning to me. My first idea was to instead write 'Satine', until her name lost all meaning to me, just after writing her name one, just once, I became petrified as I had when the Argentinian had seen me swinging. I froze, and my fingers would not type. A shiver again ran through my body, and the hairs on my neck prickled, my body slightly convulsing as I threw back my head in a whimper. The cold was getting to me, I decided. Wrapping her blanket around me, blue and faded, I sniffed it again, like I had so many nights. It still smelt like me, but there was a drifting fragrance attached, almost intangible... I pulled it over my head, and went to sleep.  
  
Simone couldn't understand why I'd run out on her the other day. I'd kept my composure after the inital shock, but it was too much to bear once she brought me tea. My hands were shaking so much I spilt it all over my lap, burning my legs. As Simone went to go get a cloth for me, I slipped out the door. I can still hear her banging and screaming on my door as I shivered, the blanket pulled over my head, facing the blank drywall. I tried to make it something more than it was, but to no avail. I think she thought I was mad at her. Her body slammed the door and I could hear her break down in sobs, convulsing. I felt slightly bad for her, but I couldn't face her, not today. Her footsteps led away, cracking an empty tune agaist the hardwood floors.  
  
Toulouse came to visit me. He didnt' know what happened. Fuck if I'd tell him. He gave me some speech about good progress, blah blah blah, don't ruin my chances. I lay in bed, totally still, totally silent. It was the first time I wished I was totally alone. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and screamed at him to shut up and leave me alone before I bashed his fucking head in. I wouldn't have done it, but Toulouse wasn't about to take his chances.  
  
I paced a million times that night, the only sound my meaningless footsteps echoing through the hallways. The light hit my face at an unfortunate angle, rendering me blind briefly. Satine, my dear Satine, smoother then the ocean at night, more beautiful then the moon that shone upon... Oh, I missed her Goddammit! I was amazingly calm after Simone told me... maybe it's when I acceptted her death, finally. No! I couldn't think that, I won't think that, I'll see her again someday, I will I will I will I will! There has to be a God, and he's putting me through so much fucking pain because I broke his GODDAMMIT rule! There's only one, fuck it, and I can't even follow that!  
  
Never fall in love.  
  
The words will taunt me forever more, as I'm sure you'll be able to imagine... It's a sad day in gay Paris when someone falls for a prostitute, that's for sure. The tango de Roxanne still riquoches off the walls of my mind, and I can still hear the words play out, like a broken record: Betrayal...  
  
Well. I best stop writing. My eyes are slightly fogged, and my mind keeps wandering back to the empty pills on the table. Don't worry about me being saved this time. I made sure I wouldn't. You'll read it in the newpaper, I'm sure. Why am I writing, you ask, if you've put two and two together....? To amuse myself. You don't cry when you know no one cares. 


	4. All I Have To Do Is Kill Her

Local Man Commits Suicide; Girl Slain  
Aug. 29, 1901. 05:24 AM  
  
Local man killed a young girl before killing himself recently, in a small home south of Paris. Neither have been identified to the press as of yet. Police reports say that the man attacked the woman when she came to his house, having hid behind the door with a pan. He continued from there to bludgion her before taking all the pills in his house, and downing it with Abstinthe. The motive is of yet unknown.  
Police did not find either of the bodies till two weeks after the incident, when a friend heard the silence and began to worry about the man. He called the police when the door would not open and rancid smells leaked into the hallway.   
The building has been closed down for cleaning this week.  
Police have made no arrests, and no court date is set. 


End file.
